The Recovery
by Palavra Escravo
Summary: “You’ll see how wonderful life can be if you let me take care of you.” It was then Jasper sobbed, Carlisle would never let him go. Slash Dark!Carlisle x Jasper
1. Chapter 1

The Recovery

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.

Warning: depictions of child abuse, some violence I guess….

A/N: This probably going to be one of my more disturbing pieces. So be brave friends.

Summary: "You'll see how wonderful life can be if you let me take care of you." It was then Jasper sobbed, Carlisle would never let him go. Dark! Carlisle x Jasper

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1. In The Flesh

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**[Carlisle]**

I was born, that much is truth.

What is untruth is the idea my parents were delighted with new news of my birth. I pictured a woman with blonde hair and brown eyes like mine whispering to her belly as she smiled dreaming of the future. I placed a image of preparing a nursery while my father looked on with pride. He was to have a son, from the woman he loved. Their child so loved, they would spoil him with gifts and shower him with deepest of affection. I then could imagine my mother smiling down upon my face as she first saw me. I was hers, I was of her, and we were of each other. She saw by eyes and she loved me, she touched my hair and she loved me. She'd sob and call me her little angel. My father would laugh and hold me close, whispering about how I would carry on his pride.

I imagined love.

I wish I had experienced these imaginative and beautiful day dreams.

Oh, but life was not so.

* * *

**August**, _1968_

"He not busy being born, is busy dying."

** -Bob Dylan**

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* * *

**

My mother was in labor. It was a very bloody birth, laden with hardship to bring one life into the world. She needed to bring forth my existence from inside her. Like all babies, I was eager to claw out the very same way the same way I slithered in.

She screamed, she sobbed and begged for me to come out from her, for this pain to end, and my life to begin.

_My father told me she fought hard for my birth._

It was a losing battle though. She shook heavy with sobs as I was finally released from her frail body. A bloody creature covered in gore, more imp than human. I was whisked away, wiped clean, and inspected then placed with a box. My mother cried as much as I did. She was so unready to face the next world.

My father was at her side when she died.

_At least he claims to have been_. _Most of the things_ _my father told me in my youth were lies or things meant to strike fear in my heart. My father was cruel; I am more than aware of this fact. (Once he left me standing in front my school for four hours in the snow, he had the day off.)_

Hopefully this is truth; my father said she named me right before she died.

I asked my father several times if those were her last words, my name upon her lips. He says yes but gets quiet there after.

So I was born to father with no wife.

"_Carlisle…"_ I could hear voice say, her voice was clear.

* * *

**1974 **

"To perceive is to suffer."

-Aristotle

* * *

My father was a preacher. He helped people find salvation. He said his work gets him angry sometimes and it's good that I'm here to keep him calm. At night he would hit me and call me devil spawn. I'd would cry and ask why, other times I fell silent allowing the 'thwack!' to fall into a fierce rhythm. My father grew angrier as the beating went on and eventually he would tire out and put back on his belt. I crawled back into my room. I was a boy, boys don't cry.

'Save your sniveling Carlisle, crying is for women.'

I didn't mention to my father that there were no women for me to model myself against at home. He did not take a second wife, nor did he sneak around at night. At times I wish he had then at least he'd be home less. I could watch our little TV or eat the leftover food. Spaghetti was the only thing my father could make, so nearly every night I was forced to eat the overcooked and _burnt_ pasta. I was too afraid to say other wise to my father.

His father was such an imposing man, tall very tall. He was strange, his eyes were slightly cross and his glasses did not hide his fact very well. His hair was a mousy brown compared to the brilliant blonde of my own hair. I dreamed sometimes of a father who had the same hair as me and would buy me nice clothes. My dream father laughed and ruffled my hair.

I gave up on caring after a bit, although I secretly hoped one day he'd say he loved me. Despite my deep rooted dislike of him I was always waiting anxiously for him to call on me. I'd be happy to put out the trash. Wash dishes, anything as long as he was paying attention. I wasn't a complete fool; I knew and we both knew we were no meant to be alone together. My father's impulsive nature and my emotional distress were too much for either of us to handle. He shot me stern looks from across the dinner table, while I gave fearful glances and picked at my food. We were not father and son. We were two residents who slept with an eye cracked open at night, I was afraid of being hurt and my father feared I would have my revenge one day.

He was paranoid and jaded, while I was the type of child who'd cry if I saw a dead animal. I was child infatuated with all the delights of the world; I was curious about the mysteries it held. I wondered why the world was so big and whether earth was really just a snow globe. I thought about where snow came from and why Santa never visited my house. I wanted to know everything, I pulled radios apart in the house, I took apart pipes if they were loose enough to twist, I ruined my bicycle, _something father never forgave me for_, I broke dishes and wondered why they couldn't just fit back together.

The world was different from the house. It showed me so much.

At the house in our backyard, there was a tree, it was rather tall but I could climb on it well enough. My clothes were dirty and I usually ripped my already patchy pants on the way up. It was wonderful though. I could see into the yard next over. There was a girl and her mother there. She'd wave and I offered a wave in return. Her mother would yell across the yard to come over, but I always declined. I was fine just watching sometimes the father would come and sling the girl over his shoulders laughing before going into a cough fit. He was smoker, I knew that from glancing into the yard, and seeing the smoke rise high and blow from his lips.

Father preferred not to smoke because, 'It made one's soul unclean.' My father said worldly influences must be kept away from the body as to prepare us for the second coming of the Lord. Despite that he kept the side of the fridge filled with beer bottles. He did sober up for his Sunday mornings though.

My father would take to church, and I'd listen to him preach. Many of them cried, but I did not. I liked listen to him say words though, they were pretty little lies of course. But I could pretend for a moment that that man standing at the podium was really my father and not the façade of a cruel monster. I pondered to myself if God knew what he was rally like, _Should I tell him_, I thought. I didn't pray often then, only when we ate food and father made me do so. I refused to pray to someone who robbed me of a mother, friends, and a father.

At first I did, everyday the same prayers:

_God, please just give me a mother._

_Please, God, give me a friend._

_God, please make father stop hitting me. _

_God please make this day better than yesterday. _

I begged God for every small mercy he would offer until my sixth birthday. All my hopes were dashed by the event that my father forgot my birthday. I was left alone to sit in my tree and cry until he came home. I had to watch the girl and the next yard over play with her mother. _Esme_, she was called.

I didn't snivel at dinner as I was forced to pray though.

"Bless us O'Lord…"

I cursed God silently wondering whether my birth was some kind of catastrophic occasion that_ I _was not informed of. _I'm sorry, just stop being angry!_ Was I such a bad child, did deserve this? I never voiced my birthday to my father, because a week and half later he showed up with a crumpled card.

'Happy Fifth Birthday!', it read.

_I_ _wished to tear it to pieces. I wanted nothing more than to burn it! _

I was six; he'd even gone as far to spell my name wrong. 'Charlie', he wrote. It was the biggest slap he could give me, mother gave me that name. It was her last words, her legacy for me. What did I have of her other than my own name? It was mine, the gift of love.

Hate took too much energy and anger didn't suit me.

'_God', _I pleaded, _'make everything alright.'_ my last prayer as a naïve child. My final plead.

These prayers fell from my lips unanswered.

* * *

**December 1974 -January, 1976 **

"Man is the cruelest animal."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

I was eight years old.

My father gave me a new winter coat for Christmas about two weeks before. The coat was blue and rather pleasant looking.

Blue is still one of my favorite colors. Back then I wished my eyes were blue, I figured I would be prettier. I was a handsome boy, the ladies at the church would tell me. I'd laugh and say I wanted to be pretty like a mother, they were charmed. The church women loved me. They baked me cookies and had me try on mittens they'd knit for me in the winter.

My father could care less, their compliments did nothing as did my achievements. I brought home A's and made the honors list for my grade school. I attended everyday of school one year despite being ill a few times; he still cared nothing for my merits_. 'LOOK AT ME!' _I longed to scream. I refused to act out though. If positive accomplishments still earned me a beating, I shuddered at the idea of negative ones.

However recently that year my father had begun to notice me…

As of late he'd ask me strange questions, mostly concerning the discomfort I felt n my chest, after a horrible cold. The doctor, a friendly man who ruffled my head, said it would probably be little while before I completely healed. Dr. Evans, that was the doctor, was only in town for about a year; he'd married a young woman and moved to our neighborhood. My father didn't like Dr. Evans' wife she was unable to have children due to a car accident that damaged her pelvis permanently.

She got around with crutched and moved about with a cane. She had brown hair that ran down straight and fine. She wore yellow dresses and would usually stay indoors. Sometime she'd limp down to the clinic to visit her husband. I was intrigued; she was beautiful in her own right. Her face was exotic compared to the usual plainness most of the women had here, her nose was long and round at the end making her look more stern and serious than she actually was. Her face was covered in cute freckles that made her seem girlish as well. She had pert lips and large green eyes. He hair was the color of ginger. Her laugh was light and sometimes I closed my eyes to listen to it whenever she was outside and wandered by her home.

I pulled tighter on my hat; she made it for me the year before, back when she was spending her first Christmas here:

She noticed me one day in the fall of the previous year, and I saw her perched on the chair. She was relaxed on the porch reading a book. She offered me one of the kindest of smiles I have ever come to know, and I ran all the way home. Her quaint laughter echoed behind me and followed me up the street.

I saw her even less when the snow came; she did however hobble up the street to give me a gift on Christmas Eve. She came that night before with cookies that my father glared at.

I recall peeking around him and smelling the warm glorious flavor that lay within them, _snickerdoodles_.

"This is for young Carlisle." She looked down at me, leaning awkwardly on her crutches. She held the plastic wrapped plate out to my father.

Father, all but snatched it from her hands.

"Make sure you leave those out for Santa." She said smiling.

I fought the urge to laugh, "Santa doesn't come here." I said.

Her smile faltered, and she looked sad. She glanced at my father who'd turned and made his way to the kitchen.

"Well then, you'll come and stop by tomorrow at my home."

She left and I slammed the door shut. I ran to the kitchen eager t snack on the cookies. My delight was short lived as I arrived to find my father shoveling the cookies into the trash can.

"Stupid woman." he muttered.

I fought the urge to cry and I curled into a ball in my room. I fought hard to hold back my tears and disappointment. Needless to say it was another long Christmas Eve.

The next day I walked over to the Evans' house and received a blue hat.

"I worked on it all night!" she said.

Dr. Evans smiled at me from over his wife's shoulder.

Again, I ran home. I was afraid of their kindness and care for me. I spent more time with them, and I began to linger at her home after school. She baked with me and I was all but too happy to go home covered in flour. I went home covered in love. When Dr. Evans would come home early he'd sample my burnt ginger bread men and humor me by also eating my brownies that tasted like cake. He did put me in head lock and ruffle my head, a gesture I relished in with giggles and over flowing grins.

The year 1975 came to an end and Mrs. Evans made me a scarf, for Christmas. It was so warm. I remember the soft texture, and the airy feeling it had between my fingers. It was wonder full. It matched my new blue coat, and my hat.

However, the joy of my small Christmas gift did not last.

* * *

**January **

**

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**

I was giddy the night it happened.

Father told me to wear my white Sunday suit. But it was Wednesday. I only wore that suit to church. It was peaked lapel jacket and my pants were straight and crisp.

_Father has something planned! The two of us, doing something special! Together!_

I took extra care that night to arrange my hair just right,. It was parted along the side the combed outward. I looked "cool".

Father was waiting for me at the door, along with a woman and another man. I recognized them from church. They said nothing to me, not even the lady who usually smiled at me. They both had black flashlights, with a long gripping handle.

I asked many questions; _what are we going to do? Where are we going? How old are you? Why can't I wear my coat? Can we go back and get my hat? Will this be fun? _

We came upon a spot not far from the house. A small patch of woods, I never explored. I saw Esme's house in the distance between the trees. There were lights were on banishing the darkness of their backyard.

The man and the women placed their flash lights on the ground. They illuminated a single spot on the ground in an eerie fashion.

I wasn't ready for what happened next.

_My father stroked my head. _

_I was shocked. _

"_Take off your jacket." _

_I complied. _

_I stood in my white shirt. _

"_Now the shirt." he said. _

_I hesitated, but the look he gave me forced me to remove the thin layer._

"_Now lay back son."_

"_In the snow? I'll be cold!"_

"_You need to trust me."_

_**Trust! I didn't trust him. I would be a fool to, but I laid back in the snow anyway.**_

"_Hold him down."_

"_Of course sir." They uttered this in perfect harmony._

"_Ah! It hurts, let go please." _

_I was cold, and now I would have bruises on my arms and ankles._

_My father kneeled, and the flash lights highlighted his frame and made look something akin to an executioner. _

"_In the name of Jesus Christ our savior, I ask you Lord to release this child from the chains Satan has wrapped around his soul."_

_Cold sweat came to cover my body._

_What was happening! I struggled uselessly. _

"_Into you Lord I commend his spirit!" My father raised his arms. _

"_I ask you now, Jesus the Christ, to accept this child's soul in retribution for his sins."_

_He reached into in pocket pulling out, what I'd later find out to be a scalpel_

"_Lord, accept this child into eternal life. I ask this in your name, Amen! " he cried. _

"_Amen." The two church goers echoed. _

"_Now son, close your eyes and don't make a sound." _

_He smiled, leaning over my chest from his kneeling position. He took the scalpel he ran it from my navel to the top of my sternum. Blood poured out and I shut my eyes and howled at the pain. I cried and began to squirm but the two held me tighter. My tightly knitted muscles seemed to be sliced open like seams. It was as if I were a fat piece of steak._

_Father's face held even more glee as he lifted the scalpel to make another cut. _

_He placed the scalpel just below my left nipple. My heart slammed against my rib cage, as though it were desperately trying to escape from my body. I screamed until I sounded like an animal. He sliced across from peck to peck, forming some imitation of the cross carved into my chest. _

_He made more slashes and I sobbed more as my life's essence escaped me. _

_I shook and screamed as it pressed into my skin. I pissed myself and yellow mixed with red and white covered ground. _

"…_..stop it…" I kept crying._

_There was the sound of snapping._

"_**Oh god!**__" it was a woman's voice. _

_I closed my eyes, suddenly I was gone. _

_

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_

*shudders* I hate abusing Carlisle…..He's just too sweet (well now anyway).

Um, no Jazz here….just a Carlisle flashback. _ yeah…. I hope you're curious….?

Should I continue (It's a strange project)?

Please review if you guys like it.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: *joy* To be perfectly honest I didn't think anyone was going to sneak a peek at my fic, let alone review it. ^_^ Four review for my disturbing little fan fiction. No violence here, more slightly off Carlisle moments. *does a dance* I'm eager to delve more into Esme the next chapter.

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2. Happiest Days of Our Lives

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**[Carlisle]**

I was happy to make breakfast. It was even nicer making it for two.

I sliced the apple and placed it on the tray. I poured cereal into the plastic white bowl, and then I filled it with milk. I was smiling; it was wonderful to take care of someone. I know this will work out so much better than Edward was …so much better.

Edward was a mistake on my part, a horrid mistake. At first things did work out, the piano that was in the basement proved that much. However, Edward was less than pleased, that I wanted more. He was so terribly greedy, Edward just did not under stand. I lived for people. I want to love people. Then came that night, I still regret a few of my actions.

"**You can't do this Carlisle, people aren't things!"**

Of course, people aren't 'things'!

Edward Masen, the first person I ever shared my passions with. My pleasures were at first his pleasures. Nevertheless, ignorance is within everyman's heart and the same could be said for Edward. I hope dearly that our path's never cross again because I'm not sure what I-

'_thump!_'

There was that sound from upstairs again. I frowned; Jasper was _still_ misbehaving. It was frustrating. Nevertheless, he was usually a good boy, despite all of Jasper's protest. I know he will come to enjoy this. I love him; he is as much mine as I am his. We are family he will learn it. He has to.

However, before Jasper, I had another family earlier.

My life changed on that cold January night, I realized the extent of human cruelty and man's duality. We are capable of compassion and sheer unabashed cruelty. I was a child so starved of love I was willing to trust a monster, a monster that did not live in a closet of sort but certainly lurked about in the shadows. It hid behind the shadow of a man, my pseudo father. It was the town's pseudo preacher. God help me if I should ever come to know what fate lay in store for him in hell.

As I previously mentioned compassion was also within out nature. I came to know this through Mrs. Platt. She saved me that night, in more ways than one, I can't imagine what life would've been like if remained trapped with my father. Mrs. Platt took me in and I suddenly had a family, a real one. My life with the Platts was a pleasant part of my life. It was wonderful, a child needn't ask for more from a family. They provided for my every want. My every need was all but absent with them.

I should mention in note however, that all good things must come to an end.

* * *

**January 1976**

"The deepest definition of youth is life as yet untouched by tragedy."

-**Alfred North Whitehead**

January was even colder than I previously recalled.

I spent the next few days in the hospital following that awful incident. I laid in bed for that period and stared at the ceiling, my chest had far too many stitches for me to move around. I did have visitors. Dr. Evans and his wife came in, she gave me looks of deep sadness. He regarded me with something I'd come to know as pity. The only others who came were my neighbors the Platts. Apparently Mrs. Platt wandered found me when she investigated the sound of my screams. She was kind, still the same woman who asked me to play in her yard with her own daughter Esme.

Esme was, she is still to me the living embodiment of perfection. She was the first thing I saw when I awoke in the dank hospital. Her beautiful brown hair dangled near my forehead and occasionally tickled it. I was a afraid her wide green eyes bore into my brown ones. I was stunned, then overwhelmed my the grim sense of dread that filled me. I just knew where I was if I was alive, a hospital. I ached and my head throbbed from a horrible feeling of anguish that came from the memory of my father.

I was still laying flat.

I lifted my arm and tried to block away the tears, _what would happen now_, I thought. _Where was…father?_ I couldn't go home now could I. I knew my father would be waiting. I could see his crossed gazed glaring down on me, he ever eager to finish what he started.

"_Commend...His…Spirit." _

I sobbed, my arm raised over my eyes to block out the light from my eyes. I was dying inside, every breath I expelled brought on more and more tears. I thought of all the times he hit me with his belt, all the times I waited for his approval, all the times I watched parents hold their child. Everyday that I had to walk home alone seemed even lonelier now that I was dwelling on it. _God, why did you do this? _There was not a God; there was nothing but the horrible sting of cuts and the feeling of an empty stomach.

Esme still stood on the side of the bed. She had a soft look on her face, she didn't try to reach out during my hysterics. She did not try to placate me by telling me everything would be okay. She was perfect; she just waited. She watched me weep out my soul and the very remains of my dreary childhood. I couldn't hold on to it, for the life of me I couldn't hold on to myself.

I quieted down eventually, perhaps due to exhaustion.

"Are you done?"

I moved my arm from my face. I'm sure I looked pathetic, my nose running my eyes puff and red. I had drool hanging from my mouth from my more violent set of cries. Her eyes were honest though, and for a second it didn't seem like were as small as were back then.

She touched my face. Her lips moved and words came out.

"Everything will just be different now."

It wasn't comforting, but the words weren't cold. They replaced my numb feelings with a dull ache and emptiness. Everything seemed new again. She stroked my cheek, her small hands were warm, I can recall that feeling with such nostalgia it causes me to cry.

Despite my aches, I raised my hand and placed it over her warm one, I leaned into her touch and savored it.

This feeling was simply the feeling of love.

It was only an appetizer for what was to come.

"Where is my father?"

Mrs. Platt was arranging a few flowers Esme had picked for me. She tensed at the question. She did not want to tell me that information, the fact that they neglected to mention my father in the fist place proved this. It was like walking on eggshells. I had nothing to talk about, but everyone else had plenty to say. At the time, I was not a very adept in interacting with anyone on a normal basis. However, my small group of visitors paid no mind to my long bouts of silence.

"He's gone. He can't hurt you now." She said. Mrs. Platt walked to the bed and placed a tender kiss on my cheek.

The question was still left unanswered, and it was perhaps best to leave it that way. The disturbing thing about that moment was that I truly what wanted to know was, did my father hate me so. Did he want to kill me.

It would be years before he himself received the opportunity to answer that question.

"Is Esme coming to see me today?" I asked, I was waiting for her to come in. She was one the only rays of sunshine during my period of confinement.

"Yes," she smiled at me before continuing, "My husband will bring her by later. So you'll have two visitors."

I smiled at her joy.

Unknown to her, Esme's father did not visit, he did poke his head in and enquire of my health, it was an idiotic question in my opinion. I wanted to leave him with a positive opinion of my self so I answered always with a polite little yes. Nevertheless, inside I seethed at the question, "_I was just slashed open by my father, do you think I'm okay?"_ is what I really wanted to say.

Mrs. Evans often spoke of knitting me a sweater for the chilly February month as soon as I was released from the hospital. She mentioned to me rather enthused once, that she rather liked to make things for me. She said I was a good boy who needed some long over due spoiling. I could tell she wanted to say so much more to me than just passing words of a affection, but she never voiced it.

While Dr. Evans was not my doctor, he visited me and explained why he became a doctor. I found myself intrigued. He explained all the tools they used to save me, and went into gory detail with perverse fervor that I reciprocated. He spoke of his profession with such reverence and love; I couldn't help but be drawn into his world of healing. This world of beauty that showed that life was a series of pulling, and strung together by the tiniest of miracles. Atoms, cells, blood, veins, arteries, the heart, lungs, everything was interconnected in way that so intricate that Dr. Evans explained there had to be a higher power. We were a walking contradiction to everything that could go wrong.

I was gong to better myself and save people.

That is all I ever wanted for myself.

* * *

**1976-1981**

"You cannot create experience. You must undergo it."

-**Albert Camus**

The years passed by.

The Evans grew older, and the doctor grayed. Mrs. Evan gained worry lines and people moved into my old house. Esme grew to be lovelier. Mrs. Platt became something of a mother to me. Mr. Platt grew warier of my presence, especially in his home. They took me in, The Platts that is. They were warm and as loving as I imagined them to be, except Mr. Platt. He was tolerant; he lacked the caring nature of his wife and daughter.

I played in the yard as a child, and shared my clumsy first kiss with Esme. I loved to sleep on the couch in their living room, I loved to sit in the kitchen watch Mrs. Platt cook. I loved to listen to Esme practice piano. Most of all I loved her. Her laugh, her smile, every look she gave me when she though I didn't know. We held hands and sometimes fell asleep in the living while talking. But there was always a shadow waiting in our midst, Mr. Platt.

"_I don't like your eyes, kid._"

He told me that once, I responded cheekily, _I don't like your eyes either. _

I didn't have time to dwell on his obsessive behavior of myself.

Esme was ill.

Her recent bouts of migraines had progressed into something far more violent. She had dizzy spells and sometimes she shook so badly she would have seizures. The family was unsure of what to do.

Apparently, she had a tumor.

Surgery was the only way to remove it of course. Without the surgery she would die, rather painfully.

My sweet Esme.

* * *

**2006 (Present)**

"What I dream of is an art of balance."

**-****Henri Matisse**

"Jasper," I found myself smiling in the white expanse of the room, "Are you going to behave and let me give you a bath, or am I going to have to sedate you?"

Jasper cowered when I pulled the needle from my pocket. I hated to scare him, but how else would he learn, kindness did not help in the begging but grim choices were having some affect. Jasper was physically healthy, he had a pale completion and a honey blonde mop for which he called hair. Less than four months ago he let me run my hands through it with a tender reception, now all I receive are flinches and frightened glances.

I sighed, he just didn't know yet.

I was helping.

"Come here."

He stood on shaky legs walking slowly towards me. He lost his footing. I caught his slighter frame easily, and he was pressed into my chest. I ruffled his hair fondly and kissed the top of it. Everything would be perfect, Jasper would see.

"Such a good boy…." I murmured. .

Yes Jasper was a indeed a good boy and he was mine to care for.

* * *

Jasper is there, I admit, I'm teasing you guys a bit. I love all your reviews *huggles them to my bosom* I want to sing joyously, no joke. :( I wanna write horror and dark things! But hardly anyone wants to read it if it doesn't involve anything that fits in with the "fads". *sigh* I like being different. I just worry no one's interested. I always see Carlisle's excessive need to care so I want to twist it so bad!

R & R ~with love 3

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